The Expectant
by Don't Eat Dead Doves
Summary: A god of death comes to Hogwarts with slightly ulterior motives, and searches for the Elder Wand in secret. Don't worry though, the sphinx recognizes power when she sees it. Not your typical crossover, not Harry-centric.
1. Year Four

**I own nothing.**

* * *

Harry first saw the boy seven nights after Cedric died.

No one else seemed to notice him. But then again, maybe they all did, but no one spared him a glance as he parted through them like a ghost as they all crowded at the gates near the hospital wing to speak to Harry.

Harry remembered the boy because he didn't look particularly interested in Harry, nor did he look as ruffled as the others, who had tears streaking silently down their cheeks. Harry remembered the boy because he was so _odd. _

His hair was white, and his face was young, and Harry couldn't see his eyes. He dressed strangely too, all in black. The boy wore a dark polo, and dark pants, and had a strangely shaped sword on his back. It was almost as tall as the boy himself and carved with intricate stars, as if the sky itself hung on the boy's back, frozen cold and icy blue. It was decorative and the sword felt strong, it hummed a soft tune, so low Harry had to strain to hear it.

Harry decided he didn't like the sword, as it's tune felt so cold and it made his scar hurt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dark creature cried out, a pitiful creature who had never known love.

Harry watched through the window as the boy placed a hand on the ground where Cedric and Harry had landed when they came back to Hogwarts. The boy felt the grass a little longer, a faint glow rising from his fingertips, then he turned, and stole silently into the maze.

.

.

.

.

In his office, an old man (who was just as foolish as he was wise) stroked his beard. He sat in his too tall chair, a chair that had been made for kings and queens and those with power beyond, and fingered his canary yellow robes. The chair dwarfed him, he would have it removed soon, he thought to himself. Slowly, he turned to the letter from one Madame Umbridge, and made a note of exception.

He had noticed the boy when he had first stole onto the grounds, all the wards screaming silent messages of what the boy brought with him. He felt the Elder Wand shiver in his grasp as it remembered it's true owner.

'_King and Queens.' _he thinks to himself, and resolves to tell Harry of the horcruxes, it was beginning after all.

The beginning of the end.

.

.

.

.

_'The beasts daring enough to seek the new creature in the maze are foolish,'_ thought the sphinx. She flicked her long, golden tail as a cold wind washed over her fur.

_'Never mess with a dragon,'_ she thought, _'For they are clever things, nearly as clever as sphinxes.'_

_._

_._

_._

_._

She heard the beasts screams from miles away in the maze, as the dragon found its way to the heart. She would let him in without trickery, for this boy was a dangerous thing.

She thought he could have warned the spiders, they had brains after all. But no, those hairy things had the drive to become the sole strongest, and arrogance like that would be their undoing. Let them know, she thought, that tonight in the maze, there are far more dangerous things.

.

.

.

.

When the boy arrived, drenched in the blood of beasts, she gave him the hardest riddle she knew. He answered it perfectly, and raised a single eyebrow, as if unimpressed. She would have pounced on him, but his arrogance was deserved, and by that sword would be such an undignified way to die.

The boy gave her a sorry smile, and dipped his head in respect.

_'Never mess with a dragon,'_ she thought once again, _'For they are clever things, nearly as clever as sphinxes.'_

Perhaps, just as clever after all.

The boy reached forward onto the dias, and felt a shard of the broken cup. He vanished as the portkey whisked him away to a graveyard where broken souls were laid to rest, and those more broken made futile attempts to become whole.

She curls up on the stone perch and thinks that wizards are fools.

.

.

.

.

When the boy arrived, the lingering soul of Cedric Diggory didn't have time to think.

The sword was pressed to his forehead and the boy gave him an almost pitying smile, before Cedric became a butterfly and flew through a gate and into the dark.

* * *

**Don't forget to read and review!**


	2. Dreaming of Egypt (1)

**Hi, I told you that I would be updating the main story once a week, and that's true.**

**I decided, that for those of you who PM'd me about the sphinx, in between each chapter I would do a short interlude surrounding her after the Triwizard ****Tournament.**

**Thanks, **

**Don't Eat Dead Doves**

**(Props to anyone who figured out my name)**

* * *

The sphinx watched as the men slowly let waste to the maze.

.

.

.

.

As she watched it's tall hedges that obscured the bodies of the beasts fade into nothing, she felt a soft pang.

She wasn't sad, she couldn't be bothered to be, but she still felt nostalgic as the sphinx remembered when she had laid claim as queen of the wild.

.

.

.

.

'_Last night in the maze…'_ she thought, '_A dragon arrived and slayed those troublesome beasts.'_

She watched as the men stood over the bodies of the beasts and felt a hint of anger. She was as much of the maze as the maze was she, she wasn't one to disrupt the natural order.

If anything, it was she who protected it.

The bloody bodies of beasts were not her doing, but humans always do search for the easy answer. And they let her take credit for the death of prey she had no desire to slay, nor had she ever been strong enough to attempt to.

.

.

.

.

She thinks she could just eat the men and then be done with it.

.

.

.

.

She closes her eyes and almost purrs languidly as the wizards let out calls of horror when as they stand over the bodies. She smiles, she's glad that the spiders have gone.

Those, troublesome, troublesome, things.

.

.

.

.

The men lead her angrily to the cage, and the bars, and the iron, and she's still smirking as they scream. She's still laughing as they bring out their sticks and pretend not to be frightened as the bares her teeth and growls.

The boy was not responsible for the deaths of the spiders, these men were.

She knows that they have been taught to fear the faces of men and the sting of whips. She is not like the spiders, she knows no fear as years in the desert have taught her that there are things much more frightening things than wizards, and their sticks, and cages made of iron.

.

.

.

.

She lets herself think of the boy again, and remembered that he was as much a boy as a dragon.

She remembered the way he had smelled, like a cold ocean breeze that even the stars trembled in the face of.

'_Yes,' _she thought, she was no fool.

The boy had killed the beasts, and she had watched, and she had laughed.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It's nights like these that she dreams of Egypt.

Nights that she dreams of golden dunes, and endless sun, and the Nile.

She thinks that she misses the Nile.

She misses a million trees that crept along its banks in rare hints of perfect green. She misses the way her powerful legs laid chase beneath the sky. The way the wizards of her homeland were both fools, and not as foolish, and flew above on carpets that they believed could touch the stars.

.

.

.

.

She also misses the tombs, she thinks. Where they laid to rest her own dead kings, and forgot her dying gods. Sometimes she dreams of the pharaohs, whose feet she laid before as they bowed their heads and sought her counsel.

.

.

.

.

It's nights like these that she dreams of Egypt, and remembers that as she lay warm in the desert she could see a million stars.

.

.

.

.

She sees him again before they get ready to leave, that tall man who is old and not as wise as he lets everyone believe.

The man in the canary robes is like a canary. He will sing and sing until his throat is cut, and lead the miners deeper into the tombs.

The canary man knows that the boy is both a dragon and not a dragon and doesn't say anything.

_'He's afraid.'_ she thinks. _'And selfish.'_

.

.

.

.

Once again she curls up, and thinks that wizards are fools.

* * *

**Want me to continue with the interludes? Please review and let me know!**


	3. Year Five (1)

**Hi everyone! This is really important! **

**If you want to skip this you're missing out on some big announcements, but go ahead, that's fine.**

**Anyways, I've decided that I will try to update this fic ****every Sunday. **

**Please don't expect a chapter this Sunday because I will be heading on a retreat and probably won't have the energy to post something when I get back. I posted this today so you guys wouldn't get mad at me.**

**I will post an interlude whenever I'm braindead or have writers block. So, just enjoy it as it comes.**

**For anyone who is reading No Refunds for Past Mistakes, don't worry, I'm not abandoning it. I'm so sorry for leaving on a semi-cliff hanger, but it will be on hiatus until I finish The Expectant.**

**Don't forget to Follow or Review!**

**Dove**

* * *

There is a boy by the name of Harry Potter laying beneath the hydrangea bush in the front garden. None of the neighbors seem to notice, and if they do they don't care.

Petunia Dursely on her own is unpleasant enough, but mention her alleged nephew and her husband is even worse. Some neighbors are convinced they killed the poor boy off long ago.

_(It's a damn near thing, Harry is still skinny as a rake)_

The hydrangeas are quite pleasant actually, if you ignore the bug inching up his leg, and the uncomfortable feeling of dirt down Harry's back.

He pretends it doesn't bother him to hear his aunt and uncle's screams, he pretends that he is anywhere else in the world.

Perhaps Egypt, would be nice.

.

.

.

.

As he lies there, a cold breeze so uncharacteristic of the warm stench of summer blows across his face. He thinks he sees a flash of cerulean blue eyes and white hair before he blinks and writes it off as a trick of the light.

It feels important somehow, as if it has happened all before, as if the warm summer was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold chill of death.

It is now that he thinks of the maze, and the sphinx _(he thinks he would have liked if only she wasn't so wild)_, and a face as white as a sheet with eyes as red as pools of blood.

.

.

.

.

Eyes with murder in them.

.

.

.

.

At night he dreams of cauldrons, and spiders, and Cedric, and a door and a chamber that he so longs to open.

Harry closes his eyes and remembers a boy disappearing deep into the maze. He watched the maze all night but no one came out, and it wasn't long before he was convinced that no one did go in.

.

.

.

.

'_Seeing ghosts now Harry?'_

.

.

.

.

_The Hogwarts ghosts don't like the ghosts of the maze, the Friar, and Nick, and the Baron, and the Lady. _

_They don't like the boy's knowing eyes, they don't like the way the sword on his back calls to them, as if to say; come, impale your chest upon me. _

_Die, for I have witnessed death, and I have reveled in it, and I laughed in the face of the King of Souls and lived _(as much as the dead can live, anyway.)

_They are only thankful that he did not enter the castle, for if the boy entered the castle the Call might have been to great. _

_They might have gone, and they might not have come back._

_Even Peeves knows to respect a dragon. (and maybe he knows more than he lets on, maybe years of pranks and giggling have dulled the hardened look of the beast he knows he is, the beast whose heart still runs free in the maze)_

_The boy turns to look at them, as they gather near the windows, as if to say; I'm coming._

_As if to say; _soon_._

.

.

.

.

Harry remembers the way Dumbledore had acted so strangely, the way wizened old hands hand clutched his wand a little tighter as he refused to meet Harry's eyes.

Harry pretends it didn't bother him, worry him, make him feel betrayed.

He pretended to miss the way the room grew colder as Dumbledore spoke of Cedric to the mourning hall.

What he did miss was the shadow of a boy lingering at the gates as they departed for King's Cross Station.

.

.

.

.

He pretends that it hasn't hurt that Ron and Hermione have found themselves _too busy _to contact him much this summer. But that is to be expected, with Voldemort back and all.

Even if the Prophet has no new news of it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

As Harry soars through the sky on a broomstick in a strange procession led by the _real _Mad-Eye Moody, he stares down at the little lights below that he knows are thousands of people living a million lives.

He almost envies their ignorance as the cold air nips at his cheeks.

He looks up and sees the shadow of a dragon in the sky and is reminded that there are no dragons in Muggle London.

He looks up again and all he can see are stars.

.

.

.

.

As he settles in to bed one night in Grimmauld Place, he is reminded of the dementors. He thinks he can still hear his mother's screams, still see a flash of green light blinking in his eyes as a child cries.

He sometimes wonders what Dudley saw as he stared into the eyes of a dementor, what he saw in the moments before Harry's stag chased the darkness away.

_(He wonders what Dudley saw before the cold wind, so uncharacteristic of the warm summer night, though that was hidden by the chill the beasts brought with them, blew the dementors away and into the waiting jaws of a dragon)_

.

.

.

.

He worries about his upcoming trial and still feels angry at all that Dumbledore won't tell him, what he still thinks Harry is too young to know.

He knows that this trial could very well decide his future at Hogwarts.

.

.

.

.

.

When the trial ends with Dumbledore swooping in to save the day, he is relieved. _(Even if the man still won't meet his eyes)_

But oh, you are _wrong_ Harry, the trial isn't over yet, it has only just begun.

.

.

.

.

That night he dreams of locked chambers and doors.

* * *

**And for those of you who PMd about my writing style I'm so flattered. **

**I've always been fascinated by the novel 'More Than This' by Patrick Ness. It starts very abstractly, but little by little the text starts to base itself more in reality and at the end is written in the ordinary style like other novels. (Most of Ness's books are a bit abstract anyways) ****I will try let the text start to solidify as the story ****goes.**

**Cheers,**

**Dove**


	4. Year Five (2)

**Thanks to anyone who has followed or reviewed.**

**I often forget disclaimers so just know that I own nothing.**

**I have two more stories and some other chapters for Refunds and Expectant in the works right now, if anyone is willing to beta please, _please_ PM me.**

**Onwards!**

**~Dove**

* * *

It was a chilly night, but celebration (although the muggles couldn't hear it) sounded loud in the gloomy building of Grimmauld place.

Hermione and Ron had been named prefects.

Harry slunk upstairs to sulk as the night wore on.

.

.

.

.

Harry and Sirius were busy thinking _(bitching)_ about their sordid lives in the drawing room, Mundungus was drunk under the table, and Fred and George were connecting each others freckles to make smiley faces and hearts and stars.

Molly Weasley was doing damage control as she did her best to kick Mundungus out of the house and drag everyone upstairs to bed.

"We have school tomorrow, dears! You hurry on now."

"Com'n now, Molly... " Slurred Mundungus as he was haphazardly thrown out into the cold night.

Lupin gave a high pitched giggle as he clutched his mug a little tighter. _(Sirius would never let him live this down. Moony was such a lightweight!)_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Mrs. Weasely felt a vein pulse in her forehead.

_(__Have you ever heard the expression, never poke a bear?)_

Her yelling succeed in urging Fred and George up the stairs and out of her warpath, while she dragged Ginny up to bed before fussing about the house and cleaning up the remnants of a poorly organized party.

The poor woman was exhausted.

.

.

.

.

.

A million marker constellations marked the twins faces, arms, and hands by the end of the night. No one else really noticed, but one could swear they shone.

_(Before Mrs. Weasely told them to stop spelling each other and go to bed for god's sake)_

.

.

.

.

.

Mundungus sang battle hymns and drew stares from the few passerby he met in the street as he slipped back to Diagon Alley. He would be meeting a client there next morning, and was lucky Grimmauld place had more treasures than Sirius knew what to do with, or he would soon be begging.

But he supposes that's how he's survived for so long, dumb luck and a little something for everyone.

Mundungus failed to notice the way the slight drizzle seemed more like ice the farther he slunk away, nor did he notice the boy's eyes watching him leave.

In his line of profession, he made a point to be as cautious as possible, but he was drunk and unaware and the sky was beautiful and frozen still in the light of the moon.

.

.

.

.

'_It would be easy,' Thinks the boy and the sword that is his soul hums in agreement as they watch the drunk skip down the street._

'_It would be easy.' He remarks quieter and quieter still. _'_But we were never those to tamper with fate. It will happen as it will happen and we will aid when ordered to. They haven't noticed us.'_

**Ah, little captain, this is where we find your fault. He knows you have arrived, they know that you are waiting.** _Whispers his soul. _

'_Does it matter? He hold no sway over you not I, and although he believes it is under his control, there are far greater things at stake. He is of the universe. But he will never understand, even in death, what it means to be among us.'_

**He disgusts you. **

'_Yes. He possesses an object of the natural order, but he is not of the ghosts.'_

**Neither are we.**

'_Does it matter?' asks the boy, genuinely curious. 'The ghosts are of us, old friend.'_

_The beast sighs, and the wind blows through the trees, snuffling out the lamps of London as morning dawns on the horizon._

.

.

.

.

Everyone is sleeping now, three o'clock is known to be the witching hour for a reason.

Everyone is sleeping now, and you may find yourself about this time, huddled in a bar or settled on a park bench.

Everyone is sleeping now, and the only ones to keep you company are the ghosts, the moon, and the monsters.

.

.

.

.

Harry wakes listlessly as morning arrives and he hurriedly throws on some clothes. He can hear Mrs. Weasley yelling at the twins, and the cluttered shouts as the others heft their bags downstairs.

There is a somber note in the air, as they head to King's Cross Station. Sirius will miss him, but a gentler and far more exciting melody reverberates through his chest.

He thinks of Dumbledore, and the beating in his heart is one to demand answers.

.

.

.

.

_(Memories of a white haired boy swallowed by the maze are nothing more than a waking dream. The feeling is nostalgic, almost strange, but it never happened. It was never_ real)

.

.

.

.

They load their bags onto trolleys and, one by one, vanish into the bricks.

As they enter, people shoot a few inconspicuous looks his way, Harry doesn't look back. Ron and Hermione run off to the prefects cabin and he is suddenly so very lost. The loneliness creeps up again, biting and bitter, urging darker thoughts forward.

_'Why should he always be the one to suffer?' _The world is against him, and he feels like he's against the world. He's angry, understandably so, but it clouds his better judgement.

_Arrogance and obligation will be the death of you, Harry._

Ginny spots him, and he ignores the happy flutter in his chest when she clutches his arm. Neville trails behind, looking all the more like the scared dog he is as they hasten for an empty compartment. When they pull him aboard, Harry thinks recognizes _(and at the same time, doesn't) _a boy waiting to load his luggage onto the train through the window.

The shades are drawn as Luna mumbles into her copy of the Quibbler. The boy is gone again, and Harry thinks he hadn't known whom he was looking for at all.

.

.

.

.

The toe of a shoe hangs at the edge of the platform.

And although he is most unusual, few approach the boy with eyes as old as the sky. Their eyes linger longer than usual, but they do not linger long, for they have other targets. Potter is entering the train and he is far more interesting prey to the vultures.

The boy knows this, and he is thankful.

.

.

.

.

The boy watches as the throng of people begins to lessen. He can hear the steady chug of the train, as the engine hums impatiently for its passengers. He wonders if the train shares it's soul with it's conductor. But, no, it was designed to carry them forward no matter where, drift quick as an arrow through the countryside. The boy wonders if the train lives for the momentary memory or sailing over marshes and through forests like a bird, in the same way his soul longs once again to be lord of the sky.

As he thinks, pale, gossamer light shines through stained glass windows, bathing the platform in technicolor rays of sun.

Old carvings and graffiti charmed to never disappear are set against the stone pillars, and carved in benches with whittled wands. He thinks he sees a painted over mural, reminiscent of De Vinci, and thinks he wouldn't be surprised if the man was a wizard.

De Vinci, like the rest of the greats, had long since joined Soul King in whatever came beyond, by the time he came to understand the afterlife.

The paint chips here and there, and below the boring beige walls he thinks he sees forests and castles, clothed in jade and hidden from the world. An owl chirps and others answer its call. There's a nesting dove curled up on the rafter, a mouse nibbling on the cords beneath the tracks.

It's oddly beautiful, but no one else has ever noticed it.

No one ever looked, but this boy glanced.

And oh, _he saw!_

.

.

.

.

.

A strange boy walks as if the frozen sky hangs on his back.

The weight of the world rests on those slight shoulders, in his smirk there is an almost contemplating sadness. The answers to every question you have ever wanted answered are hidden in the palm of of his hand, resting beneath cold fingers.

You think, as a strange chill funnels through the room, that you may blink and he will vanish into the air.

He looks almost expectant.

.

.

.

.

Who knows what he is waiting for?

.

.

.

.


	5. Year Five (3)

**Alright, everyone! **

**This is the last chapter of explicative (aka; the boring stuff). ****It's mostly filler for now.**

**Don't forget to review!**

* * *

**I own nothing.**

* * *

The train rushes down the tracks as night begins to fall.

'_How strange a place,' _thinks the boy, as he stands outside in the very back of the train.

It has only two destinations, Hogwarts and King's Cross, but the boy thinks that the train might travel somewhere beyond.

The wind agrees and blows all the harder.

.

.

.

.

He was unable to find an unoccupied compartment, but isn't quite as bothered as the others should be. The boy has no time to waste, to spare, to bother keeping the company of foolish children.

His soul laughs at the irony of that statement, but the boy makes no move to stop him. He has long since grown immune to the taunts of a dragon that desires nothing but to fly. A soul that desires to be free, to let the stars tremble in the wind, and rain, and ice.

The boy imagines that it's like keeping a lizard in a birdcage, much too small. It longs to be free, but it's icy breath does nothing against the golden columns of a sword and the afterlife.

The boy never asked why his soul was a sword in the first place. That thought was hidden, deep in the mountains of his mind, where even a dragon would not dare trespass, for the mind is a dangerous, wild thing.

.

.

.

.

The two will play the long game.

The train screams as Hogwarts dawns on the horizon

.

.

.

.

_Da Vinci, and Hitler, and all the terrible, wonderful people have asked this question, this notion of 'why?' at one point in time, before they joined the Soul King as the sky opened up for them._

.

.

.

.

_For Da Vinci, I would like to imagine that it took moments. _

_The man was a genius, universal, total. A king of the mind, and the king of art, and so ahead of his time. _

_He would have never attended the Academy, but took one look upon the sword bestowed, know its name and laugh at the foolishness of the rest, for not knowing the name of their own souls. _

_Perhaps the sword was called Monna Vanna, or Isabella d'Este._

_(Or named for a woman with a smile never __deciphered)_

.

.

.

.

_Hitler would take a look at his sword and scoff. _

_Surely this couldn't be his soul__? It was short and ugly, painted with black and red and blood. And by some cruel twist there would be a bloodstain in the shape of a familiar star. He would wipe and wipe at it but it would never leave him. __(Never let him rest)_

_I like to imagine that he would feel sorry. _

_But beasts are beasts. And, while one can make him wear pants and walk in the skin of a man, one could never deny what was inside him. _

_The instinct, that of a wild animal as the beast should bare his teeth._

_Hitler would see a sword, see a soul, see ugly, and angry, and fire. He would see a milion bodies burned and a million soldiers condemned to fight for him._

_He would join the Academy in order to regain his former strength, power. The illusion of honor he had draped around his ego like a cloak to hide the scars._

_Then one day, when the sword whispers it's name, he would know. In that moment would he understand the anger, and the pain of a million bodies burned, of a thousand soldiers fighting for honor that would paint them as monsters for then on._

_Would he be sorry? _

_I could never tell you, for the soul is sacred no matter how mortifying. _

_(And the beast is only his own)_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_Poets, and kings, and warriors great, would know._

_Caesar__, Joan of the Ark, Melchizedek, would know. They would know the names of their swords and their lords. _

_They would seek the answers, and who could stop them?_

_The only difference is between them, and the boy (and the dragon) is that the latter do not want their questions answered_.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Soul King was not powerful, could not touch toes with some of their strongest. But Soul King, Soul King was balance. He had no beginning and no end. _

_You ask about God, and if that is true, then Soul King is the Guide._

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Are they afraid?_

_A dragon would never admit to being afraid._

_Are they angry?_

'_Yes,' thinks the boy._

.

.

.

.

.

.

Harry is seated with people he would never have thought to talk to.

Neville is still apologizing for the Mimbulus Mimbletonia fiasco, and Ginny Weasley is doing her best to placate him, as Trevor lets out a terrified croak.

Luna Lovegood has hardly looked up from the Quibbler, mumbling quietly to herself as Harry excuses himself to change.

He thinks of Cho, and pretends not to think of the way she had looked so lovely at the Yule Ball, delicate in Cedric's arms.

He does not think of Cedric, who was a sacrifice for a war that hadn't yet begun.

He prefers to think of Cedric at the ball. And while it hurt that it was Cedric with whom she danced, the former was smiling, and that was enough.

Cho Chang, and the strange feeling with which she leaves him, are put aside as he tugs on his school robes.

Her eyes were beautiful, glassy with grief, as she met his own.

Harry thinks of Cedric, and wonders if he looked at her in the way she looks at Harry.

He thinks of Cho and feels guilty.

He thinks she feels the same.

.

.

.

.

_Harry misses the way Luna shivers and glances out the window. Harry misses her words about the King of Souls, and a boy who is both a dragon and not a dragon, and is coming to Hogwarts. _

_(Although whether he is coming to raze it to the ground or guide them forward, Luna doesn't really know.)_

_The nargles tell her that the stars have begun to tremble, as their lord comes to claim their ghosts._

.

.

.

.

Harry finishes up and stuffs his clothes into a bag, before walking out into the hallway. It's dark, and he can hear the murmur of the first years as he passes, searching for their respective compartments.

He sees the Slytherins and hastens to follow, but the chill he feels when he passes to the end of the train is great. It stops him for an almost imperceptible moment, as a shadow of a figure appears in the window of the caboose.

Harry wonders if the figure is locked out there, and, like the saint he is, goes to open the door. His breath catches when he sees what's on the other side.

_(The other side)_

.

.

.

.

There is a boy standing against the railing, watching the tracks with an almost militant eyes, as if expecting an attack. The boy does not flinch, or even seem to acknowledge Harry's presence as the door clatters open.

Harry thinks of Moody, and his shouts of constant vigilance, as the boy turns to him. He thinks it must be a trick of the light because the boy's eyes seem to _shine, _but then they fade, returning to an cold blue, emotionless as a hard slab of ice.

The boy's hair is cropped short, and so white it's like snow, matching the cold chill that seems to roll of his skin. He would be handsome if he didn't look so angry, but no…. Angry is not the right word. The boy looks as if his face was frozen while he was scowling, forever trapping him in this odd form of seriousness that looks strange on someone so young.

.

.

.

.

"Er, I'm Harry." He says, in an attempt to break the silence.

"I know." The boy says with an air of indifference. His voice is not like Harry expected it to be. Instead of bells, it's like the deep toll of a gong.

He's already dressed in his school clothes, forgoing the outer robe entirely. But while Harry shivers, as the wind bites at their cheeks, the other doesn't seem to notice. The black of the boys tie; signifying his lack of house.

"Are you a first year?"

The other smirks, "Something like that."

"Well, better hope for Gryffindor."

"Why?" asks the boy.

"Why?"

"Why should I hope for Gryffindor?"

Harry is silent for a moment before describing the bravery and honor that comes from being one of them.

A member of Dumbledore's lions.

.

.

.

.

The boy shrugs."I think it's counteractive."

"What do you mean?"

"You," he says shortly. "Are as biased as the Slytherins. Dumbledore always had a soft spot for his own." He says it angrily, and Harry hears disgust in his voice as the other speaks of the headmaster.

"Hey! We're nothing like those slimy snakes!" He replies heatedly.

The boy looks him dead in the eye. "If you don't spend time with people who aren't like you, how on earth will you ever learn? What about muggleborn Slytherins? They aren't purist but those with _ambition_. Voldemort and Grindawald were the first to taint their house's reputation. It's separatism, that's what it is."

It doesn't dawn on Harry that the other used the dark wizard's name, to caught up in his own rightful anger.

.

.

.

.

"We're nothing like _them._" He says.

"Who are _they_?" the boy whispers, to low for Harry to hear.

.

.

.

.

The boy looks at him, doesn't see him, yet sees him all the same. His eyes are like Dumbledore's. They make Harry angry with all the knowledge they have yet to share.

Yet, as Harry thinks of Dumbledore and the boy he wonders if knowledge comes at the cost of being human.

The boy's lips pull up at the corners. "Pleasure talking to you Potter. That's the problem with wizards, so bias, so foolish to believe they know the ways of the world. Even Tom Riddle had a soul once, but Dumbledore never looked to see it. He believes himself righteous, he who condemns you all."

"Who's Tom Riddle?" asks Harry.

The boy begins to chuckle, high and cruel, and Harry is reminded of a graveyard, and a body, and a flash of Avada Kedavra green.

"He hasn't told you?" The boy stares, and there is pity and something else in his gaze. Harry would peg him as a Slytherin, but somehow he seems so much more dangerous than a snake.

The boy turns, about to disappear into the dimly lit hallway.

"Wait! What's your name?" Calls Harry, hating the desperation in his voice. The train rattles on, and Harry drags his robes tighter around himself in face of this little first year.

.

.

.

.

"Hitsugaya." The boy says and leaves.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**So...**

**I think I'm getting increasingly worse. I apologize for all the OOC but I'm doing my best. I'm a bit of a history buff so If you don't recognize the names Google is a thing.**

**Today, someone (of whom will remain anonymous) PMd me about Mpreg.**

**.**

**.**

**Umm...**

**No idea what that was. **

**I googled it, was horrified, was a little objective? **

**I mean, where the hell is the SCIENCE? Biology does not work that way, and while the human genetics are ultimately fascinating and almost as mysterious as the concept of death and hardwired tickets to the eventual evolution and end of our species... I don't think that works.**

**(Mpreg is now added to the list of things I will not write)**

**.**

**.**

**Let's just say I had a fun time clearing my search history!**

**See ya next week,**

**~Dove**


	6. Dreaming of Egypt (end)

**Hi everyone! No new chapter today.**

**I came down with a cold and just posted this interlude, you can skip it if you want. **

**This interlude will end the Egypt Arc, and this will probably be the last time we hear from the sphinx unless I feel strongly about it later. **

**My next interlude arc will be the accumulated story of a young Filch and Mrs. Norris, and why exactly he is the bitter, spiteful bastard we love to hate on. It is mostly a prelude, but will feature some bleach characters. **

**Thanks!**

**I own nothing.**

**~Dove**

* * *

The sphinx knows danger when she sees it.

She knows the woman in pink is not her friend.

.

.

.

.

The woman in pink calls her kitty, calls her cute, calls her foolish.

The woman in pink can barely pass as a witch, for unlike the few the sphinx has met in her long life, this woman is no Cleopatra. The woman in pink could never rule a kingdom, never lead patient magic through the depths of the Nile.

The sphinx wants this woman to suffer, want to hear her scream beneath her claws, as bone white draws ruby red through bloated flesh.

This woman is no witch, more like the toad they use in storybook potions.

She smiles at her own clever joke.

.

.

.

.

She wakes up again among the cages.

Most are empty, the boy had done away with most. The few still left alive could not hold an intelligent conversation, and the dragons had flown off to their own sugarcoated bird cages.

Trust wizards to think they are selfless, trust wizards to ignore the signs.

.

.

.

.

The sphinx knows where the scarred boy went that night in the maze, and where the dragon followed.

But, unfortunately, no one listens to her.

That's the trick, isn't it?

.

.

.

.

The most beautiful woman in the world could not hold a candle to the face of the sphinx. Her lips are full, her hair is gold, her eyes are like twin stars.

The sphinx wonders that_ if she had been born human…._

No, she decides, thinking of their disguised cruelty.

She does not wish to be one after all.

.

.

.

.

The caravan clacks on.

She doesn't know where they are going, for no one ever tells her.

The woman in pink came again, she wanted to leap at her, wanted to roar.

A million wands were pointed at her chest, and again she was dragged by the undertow.

The Nile roars for her, its water flooding hell as her kings call out to her again.

.

.

.

.

_I'm coming_, she thinks.

.

.

.

.

It is the day they use the whips.

It is the day the woman in pink says goodbye and flies off to make trouble at the castle.

She missed her chance, thinks the sphinx, to make that woman suffer.

There are five guards stationed around her cage, five men with wands that feel like whips, and no good deeds to their names.

The sphinx is angry.

She will not miss the chance to make the wizards suffer again.

.

.

.

.

When they signed up for the job, these men, who wanted to feel kill and feel proud of it, enlisted among the ministry's unspeakables.

However, the unspeakables had shed their names. They were forever condemned to the darkness, to experiment with the very wildest of magic. They were not loyal to the minister, but loyal to the ministry.

.

.

_The unspeakables were their own. _

_The unspeakables had no names, for they were the willing marionettes of magic._

_Even a dragon was wary in the face of one, even a dragon knew not to speak of their sins._

.

.

And so, these men found themselves cast from the sanctum, as they had wanted to be awarded medals and stand among the elite.

The aurors wouldn't take them, for the paranoid man with the spinning blue eye had banned them from his office.

They pretend to forget the way his gaze had cut into their souls.

.

.

The woman in pink, because although she was a toad; she was a crafty one, had offered them places in her own corrupted kingdom.

With the sphinx, the dragons, the spiders, wizarding England had weapons of war.

But the sphinx, for all her piety for her kings, had denied them counsel.

And with her own claws, tore them to pieces.

.

.

.

.

_The sphinx stands above them, blood in her fur and her claws. They can't tell how much is hers or their own._

_As death comes to claim them, the beast bares her teeth, and the men bare witness to a__ flash of pearly white before a boy steps neatly into the locale._

_The dragon raises a sword, and they think they'll find peace and power there._

_Floating among the butterflies._

.

.

.

.

It has been long since she has seen the dragon, but the sphinx is wise enough not to forget a face. This is what makes cats so dangerous, they know more than they let on. They have claws and hold grudges.

_(and the boy is used to dealing with dangerous cats)_

He turns to her, and his sword is once again free from his scabbard.

Her vision is hazy, there is blood in her teeth, but she has battled and won. She has no time to spare for the boy, her kings are waiting, and the desert air is warm on her fur.

The wind, called _khamsin_ by her people, is loud and victorious. The gods laugh at the dragon, shouldn't he see? Shouldn't he know?

The boy meets her eyes, and she knows he understands, for his soul and her soul speak the same language.

The language is a lost one.

It hasn't been spoken for a million years.

.

.

.

.

He turns away, and for a second there is respect in his eyes, odd among the dull blue.

The sphinx laughs, only this time it is a cry of unadulterated joy.

The boy opens his mouth, and there are words on his lips. She doesn't hear them, understand them, but the message is clear enough.

.

.

.

.

_The sphinx runs, runs on to where her kings are waiting._

_The desert is warm, and the Nile is a familiar friend, even the wizards here are less troublesome, for they understand the ways of the gods. There is the bazaar, where the people sell their goods, there are the __pyramids, where the ancient ones are laid to rest. _

_There are the people, her people, who understand what it means to bow before the queen of the wild._

_She looks up, and the cages are gone now, for the stars are all she can see, and Egypt was there all along._

_No need to dream now, for Egypt takes care of its own._

.

.

.

.

_The boy and the dragon watch her soul run on._

_He doesn't follow, he never needed to._

_There are the gates to Egypt, and Soul King has no sway in the face of a god, of a queen, of a sphinx._

_The boy smirks, the dragon roars._

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Oh look, look now! Look quick!_

_There are the stars! Aren't they pretty?_

_There comes the khamsin, and oh, how cold it is._

.

.

.

.

_Careful now dear, there are monsters out tonight._

.

.

.

.

* * *

**Thank you, my lovely readers.**

**I might post the next chapter tomorrow if I feel better.**

**.**

**.**

**Have you guessed who the woman in pink is? (I think it's pretty obvious)**

**Also, I dropped a hint about another Bleach character during this. She will be appearing in the next chapter, because she is just that badass.**

**.**

**.**

**Peace,**

**Dove**


	7. Year Five (4)

**I own nothing.**

**Don't forget to review :)**

* * *

There is a squid at the bottom of the lake.

He has a name, but it hasn't been spoken for several centuries. So, it is all the more efficient to call him by his title, his being.

He is a squid, that much has been said already, I do hope you were paying attention.

.

.

.

.

The squid isn't particularly bothered by the isolation, but the merpeople are dull and ugly and the days are repetitive.

An endless sea of monotony as the waves crash above, and the people run to escape him.

Last year, when the foreigner swam in his lake, the squid was almost pleased. He is no pack animal, no _beast. _He is a creature of the depths of the sea, and while wild, he is nothing like his fellows, all teeth and claws.

The lake is of him, as he is of the lake. He was born here, will die here, centuries upon centuries past and onwards. He is like the lake too, dark, mysterious, a danger despite its own familiarity.

The squid of Hogwarts has a mind, and that's something.

.

.

.

.

.

.

As Harry lays at the floor of the Slytherin cabin, nose bleeding and swollen, he hears a breath and turns his eyes above.

Hitsugaya is standing there, staring at him with an almost disapproving expression. It is no more subtle than the 'I-told-you-so' look he used to get from Dudley when he broke a plate and Aunt Petunia punished him.

Then he turns, makes no attempt to help Harry, something that coils angrily in his blood, while the less than human soul inside him breathes in relief.

_(There is something disgusting clinging to Potter's chain, like the gum someone sticks incidentally to the bottom of the table)_

Harry watches as Hitsugaya slips through the door, as quiet as a ghost as he parts through the students in the hallway. His feet make light steps, almost silent on the creaky floorboards that gave Harry away to Malfoy and the others.

Nymphondora Tonks comes ages later, and she is destined to die. They don't know it yet.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Grubbly-Plank was always a smart woman. Somehow, that closed doors for her.

When she was younger she had aspired to become like Amelia Bones, a pillar of power, a logical voice in the ministry that was falling apart at the seams. But the ministry already had one token woman, and certainly didn't need another.

She left after it became clear she was only there to complete their paperwork.

.

.

.

.

Hogwarts had been good to Grubbly-Plank, so she in turn was good to Hogwarts. So, when something caused the hair on her neck to stand still, and the firsts years edged away and whispered, she stepped forward to investigate.

A boy stands, carrying the heavy trunk over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. He's thin, too thin, handsome in a way that seems unnecessary. He can't be more than thirteen.

He's odd too, like he shouldn't be there, but somehow he exists there just the same. The wind carves itself around him, the light from the train shining around his head like a halo.

For a second she thinks he's an angel. Her husband might be rubbing off on her, then. He's a muggleborn, and somehow never managed to lose his religious beliefs.

.

.

.

.

Wizards and the church don't usually mix. Magic is sin and sin is magic, and wizards are petty and bitter about the age old stories of burnings.

For aren't they gods themselves?

Muggle venerate miracles, so shouldn't wizards, creators of miracles, be gods, too?

.

.

.

.

She watches the boy step towards her, as she shepherds the first years to the boats. Something sets her on edge, like the way she feels as she handles the more dangerous animals in her profession.

Something wild has begun, something great.

He pauses, "Which way to the boats?"

His voice is soft and raw, like a knife in the back. It scares her more than she should be.

She points, her breath catching and she can't speak.

_('Smart woman,' thinks Hitsugaya.)_

.

.

.

.

.

.

_It comes a no surprise that no one wants to ride with him._

_That's fine, the stars and the dragon are more than enough to keep him company._

.

.

.

.

* * *

**Shorter chapter today. Life happens, and I've been kind of busy.**

**.**

**.**

**Please check out my new fic 'The Angel, the Witch, and the ****Alcohol' It's a Ryo meets Yuuko fic. **

**(****Devilman Crybaby and XXXholic) **

**.**

**.**

**Thanks for all the support!**


	8. Year Five (5)

**I sort of realized that Harry doesn't go into the Slytherin Compartment until book six. Oh well, slightly AU then I suppose. Sorry! **

* * *

**I own nothing. :)**

* * *

The squid at the depths of the lake feels something cross his waters. A hand skims the surface and slips deep into the cold water. It waves, as if asking permission.

The squid knows what the dragon wants.

.

.

.

.

Although the half-giant was keeper of the grounds, the squid was the keeper of the gate. As the first years passed over his waters, the squid recognized their power and let them through.

He knew that the charming boy with brown (red) eyes, who descended from snakes, would be trouble. The canary robed man was too arrogant, too biased to see it. The squid would warn them, but he cared little for the lives of mortal men, they didn't understand his silent words anyway. And the event had already happened, fifty times new first years crossed the waters, helping him count the passing years.

He knew that the dragon felt the same.

Or ...no, perhaps the dragon felt differently about mortal lives, but the boy was a loyal follower of the rules, and the dragon was loyal only to the boy.

Stupid kings, and ugly souls.

.

.

.

.

He answers the offered hand with a lazy brush of his tentacles. The boy swallows the instinct to withdraw his hand as the slimy appendages move across his skin, but years as a soldier have trained the instinct out of him.

Flight is no longer an option, and the boy fights battles he knows he will lose, under the pretence of loyalty to his society. The dragon inwardly dispares.

He grants them permission, his bellow is low, sonorous.

The dragon will tell the boy that he shall let them through, the other boats wondering why this one is so far behind them. The water has created a small whirlpool, keeping them in place.

The boy (although he is old) is still young, and foolish in the face of a creature that has thousands of years to his name. The language is ancient, the boy doesn't answer, but the dragon thanks him anyway.

Good luck Hogwarts, the squid, keeper of the gates, is loyal to only his own. And you should always test your workers before letting them watch your home.

The waters retreat, as if apologizing for the delay, the boat speeds up to join the others.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The first years show up to the feast with the same awed expressions that Hermione remembers she had when she was younger.

Still, she barely listens to the speech, her heart is too nervous with thoughts of Harry. He showed up to the speech with blood crusting his uniform, led by Tonks as the hall watches on.

.

.

.

.

Umbridge is clearly interfering with Hogwarts, and Hermione is almost so annoyed that she misses the way Dumbledore's eyes sharpened when the first years step into the hall, interrupting the start of term speech.

He clears his throat, stepping lightly down from the podium as 'York, Lorian' is sorted into Ravenclaw. This draws looks from the others as he gestures to the line.

There is a noticeable gap in the shivering crowd. A boy stands, his air is oddly colored, and his eyes are both sharp and dull. Dead, like the sharks on the discovery channel, that could still tear you apart with their teeth if they wished.

Dumbledore exchanges a few terse words with him in another language, each sentence is spit like a bullet from their mouths.

He notices them watching, and gives a merry smile, before both he and the boy disappear into the hallway. Their footsteps loud in all the quiet.

Hermione notices the recognition in Harry's expression. And the fear in her heart multiplies.

..

.

.

.

"Who is 'e, Harry?" asks Ron.

Harry tells them of the Slytherin cabin, the boy's hatred of Dumbledore, the way he left Harry still on the floor of the train.

"Bloody hell! What a dick."

"Language Ron!"

"I dunno mate, if I didn't know better, I'd say that bloke's a Death Eater."

Dumbledore comes back into the hall.

"This is Hitsugaya Toshiro, he will be observing Hogwarts, and making sure it passes his superiors' regulations. Please be sure to treat Captain Hitsugaya with the respect he deserves. Although he is young, he is the best his associates have to offer."

Who those superiors were, Dumbledore never said. But there was something in the way his words were careful, something in the way he reluctantly conjured up a chair for Hitsugaya at the table.

Hitsugaya's eyes sweep over the stunned hall, lingering a little to long on Harry.

Definitely a Death Eater.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Luna Lovegood takes note of the cat curled at his feet. No one else noticed, too wrapped up in his appearance. He couldn't be older than a third year, but something about Hitsugaya's mannerisms set them on edge.

The cat was black, sleek and clever. Luna was almost certain that something wiser lived inside it. A woman hid in the form of an animal, but she was powerful in a way even an animagus couldn't hope to be.

Luna grins, mad and full on knowledge, unsettling her new housemates.

Oh yes, Mrs. Norris knows this woman. She's seen her before years ago, when she was just a kitten. Luna knows this woman, she was the one who led her mother through the gate. The boy knows this woman, and the woman knows that one day he will be more powerful than she could ever hope to be.

Dumbledore is less concerned by the cat, he has other matters to attend to. The Elder wand writhes in his grasp, but the wood is still. Professor Mcgonagall glances at him strangely as he stuffs it in his pocket.

The battle isn't won yet, and was there ever really a chance of the canary robed man winning at all?

The sword hanging on the boy's back pulses with the weight of the sky, the wind is still, and the stars begin to howl.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**Check out my new crossover! **

**It's a two part Death Note and Sailor Moon Fic. (features Ryuk being a bitch as usual and Hotaru Tomoe as a primordial badass)**

**.**

**.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Year Five (6)

**Wazzup my pretties! **

**.**

**.**

**I just wanted to state that this isn't implicitly Dumbledore bashing. He was never the villain of the Harry Potter Saga, I just always considered him a somewhat anti-hero.**

**He seems to be a radical, but in order to come to this image of genial power and generosity he has allowed people's biases to affect their judgement of him. He has further alienated many Slytherins, and while not actively speaking against them, he has allowed the other houses to come to their own conclusions, however flawed they may be. **

**I think Tom Riddle's epic rise as a super villian could have been nipped in the bud long ago. So evidently, It isn't too far a stretch to say that Soul Society isn't pleased with his lapse of judgement. **

**.**

**.**

**I plan to detail a bit more about the inner workings of my version of Soul Society later in the story.**

**Don't forget to review!**

* * *

**I own nothing. :)**

* * *

A black cat lays languidly on the grass, as the cool green tickles her fur. She waits for the dragon. The moon shines lonely down on the lawn, and she skirts the edges of the light as the first years trudge up the path.

The feline is small, light and unobtrusive. She's probably some student's pet, or merely a mirage, an illusion in the dark. You could blink and she would be gone in an instant. You would never be sure whether she was ever really there at all.

Dumbledore's wards have yet to detect her, and for that she laughs. Her skill is befitting, reminiscent of her former power as leader of the Onmitsukido.

Even Yamamoto knew of her skill, but he also knew why she left.

Hope is a dangerous thing, you have to be crazy to chase it. And Shihoin Yoruichi is plenty crazy.

.

.

.

.

She sees him before he sees her, although she knows he senses her presence. Not everyone has her talent for seeing in the dark, but he's improving, that she knows.

Hitsugaya makes light steps along the path, nearly silent, but her well trained ears pick up the slight rustle in the grass.

"_Yoruichi."_

"_Captain~."_

They acknowledge each other but their words are hushed, spoken in their native tongue in case anyone overhears.

"_I have a job to do, Yoruichi. Why have you come?"_

She grins. "_The head captain asked for a favor, I so rarely give favors. Just this job and I'm outta debt. How's Soul Society treating you?" _

He pauses, and she sees the hidden pain in his eyes. Aizen's betrayal came with consequences, too many to count. His eyes look like hers did, all those years ago, young and betrayed. She knows what weighs on his soul, the almost tantalizing scent of _chance. _

Yoruichi only hopes to be there when he takes it, but Hitsugaya is almost sane enough not to. Yoruichi wonders how long the dragon has waited, how much longer he will continue to.

She senses the power, waves of it, the ice and wind curling under his skin. He is more powerful than he thinks he is, but it has yet to show itself, for it is too much for his childlike body.

Ichigo is strong, perhaps the strongest now, but the boy's power continues to grow, has yet to reach the summit.

Ichigo was a substitute.

Hitsugaya, as wise as he is, died young.

.

.

.

.

"_I...am glad that you lived. But I have questions regarding your decision not to tell the others." _there is admittance in his voice that she thought she'd never hear.

"_No," _she finally says, "_for once in my life I am free. After this job, I will be declared dead. Officially by the captains of the Gotei Thirteen, the nobles, Soul King."_

"_Where will you go?" _If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"_On." _her voice is sharp, the word is clear and unafraid.

"Good luck." he says in english, and she hops onto his shoulder as he walks far ahead of the pack. The other first years huff all the way up the mountain, Yoruichi wonders if they haven't exercised a day in their lives.

"_He's waiting." _She says softly, thinking of a shopkeeper and a striped green bucket hat.

Hitsugaya doesn't answer.

.

.

.

.

The doors open, the first years have arrived.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Dumbledore felt his presence before he entered the hall.

The boy had arrived, the room conducted a sudden chill in time with the opening of the doors. For a moment he considered renewing the wards, as the boy would be barred entrance.

But, as painful as it was for him, the boy would cross them anyway. His power was mighty, still growing, would one day be unmatched.

But that day was far away now. And the canary man would use any trick in his sleeve to ensure his own power.

He stands, and his colleagues stare, confused. He makes his way from the high table, robes billowing behind him.

The boy smirks as Dumbledore leads him to his office.

Let the games begin.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A cat slips quietly into the castle. Only Luna Lovegood, Mrs. Norris, and the ghosts noticed her.

Perhaps Professor Mcgnagall recognized the change in the air, too. Her feline instincts urging her to protect her territory. But the professor was no animal, and the human side of her won. Soon the unsettling feeling vanished with the clatter of Umbridge standing to interrupt the headmaster's speech.

That was fine, though.

The ones to watch Yuroichi warily, they would be the ones to tip the scale.

.

.

. .

.

.

.

The two walk quickly through the halls of Hogwarts. The portraits lining the walls stare as the headmaster and the boy run along. Although they are none too sure which is the pursuer, and the other chased.

"Lemon Drop!"

The Gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office barely had time to leap aside as they barrel up the stairs two at a time, come to a stop in the office, gasping for breath.

Or, at least, Dumbledore is. Withered old bones, and greying hair.

Hitsugaya merely leans against the wall.

Dumbledore leads him quietly to his desk. The consistent hum of the various trinkets lining the shelves are both mildly disorienting and trying on the boy's nerves. Dumbledore however, is the picture of calm. He sits, wearing a serene expression as his magic carves the boy inside out.

"_I apologize for the late notice."_

"_No, no, it's quite alright."_ Dumbledore chuckles.

Hitsugaya took in his surroundings, the office was covered in books and dust. He sneezed. If his office was this messy, he would surely have a heart attack.

"_I am thankful that you came all this way. I have a favor to ask, my boy."_

The boy in question raises an eyebrow. "_Not your boy, Dumbledore."_

He nods. "_Of course! Of course. Why you must be older than I am!"_

It's foolish, but it's trying, a badly disguised question. Like Hitsugaya would ever tell him any more than the canary man needed to know.

"_Make no mistake, Dumbledore. I'm not here to entertain. You, of all mortals, should know that Soul King is not on anyone's side but the dead."_

Dumbledore looked almost disappointed by this news but nodded anyway, then he went on to explain the events of the last few years, and why Harry was key to winning the war, as if the other hadn't known it all already.

"_Protect him." _He leans forward, and the two catch eyes. Dumbledore arrives eagerly at the edges of the boy's mind, a barren field. He inches closer, but the cold becomes too much and the roar of the wind hurts his ears. But the thought he sends, although unspoken, is a powerful threat.

The Elder Wand hums its mournful tune. Hitsugaya hisses as the bond snakes into his limbs. His soul reaches out a taloned paw, but the boy waves it away. It's easier if Dumbledore thinks he's won.

"_I...never put much stock in prophecies, but we will agree to your terms." _Pain courses through his skin as the vow is complete. The living were never meant to be tethered to the dead. "_I will keep you alive until the time comes."_

Dumbledore nods, "_Thank you."_

.

.

.

.

.

.

"_What a load of bull."_ Yoruichi rolls her eyes as Hitsugaya makes his way to his quarters, mindful of the disappearing step. He ignores the looks from the few students still roaming the halls.

The ghosts have been avoiding him, the portraits oddly silent.

"_What is it?"_ He asks. The portraits watch him go, their painted eyes reminiscent. Perhaps they remember what it was like to be alive, or perhaps they are souls merely trapped within the canvas.

"_He just hires people to do his dirty work."_

"_Who? Voldemort or Dumbledore?"_

"_Both."_ He doesn't ask whether she speaks of mortals, or of the afterlife. Both are dangerous with too much power to spare.

Hitsugaya nods sharply. "_It's all dirty work."_

.

.

.

.

* * *

**In case it wasn't clear, Dumbledore made an unbreakable vow with Hitsugaya using the Elder Wand. If it had been just any wand, the vow would not have worked, as the Elder Wand is the only wand that can connect the living and the dead. **

**The thing they vowed to do is still a secret for now, but every time Hitsugaya violates the terms of contract, it burns him. His elemental type is ice, and fire is the natural enemy.**

**.**

**.**

**Sorry for the crappy chapter! Don't forget to review.**


	10. Status Update

**The following is the status of the arcs within The Expectant.**

**Interludes are in bold.**

* * *

_Year Four:_ completed

.

.

**_Dreaming of Egypt (interlude)_:** completed

_._

_._

_Year Five:_ partially planned (almost completed)

.

_._

**_Mrs. Norris and the Vanishing Act (interlude):_** prewritten

.

_._

_Year Six_: planned (partially prewritten)

_._

_._

**_Trial of the Alchemist (as told by Nicholas Flamel) (interlude):_** partially planned

.

.

_Year Seven_: unplanned

.

**_The Requiem of the Painted Soul (as told by Phineas Nigellus)_ (interlude):** planned

.

.

_Epilogue:_ planned (partially written)

* * *

**Thanks to anyone who has favorited, followed, or reviewed!**


	11. Year Five (7)

**Big week for me, my friends! **

**.**

**.**

**1) Came out to my parents (and subsequently introduced them to my boyfriend)**

**2) Caught the stomach flu (and then gave it to said boyfriend and roommate/best friend)**

**.**

**.**

**So, in all honesty, writing and posting another chapter wasn't the most important thing on my mind. **

**I apologize for skipping two weeks week, but I'm back and ready as ever, baby! The show I'm acting in opens next week so I will be on hiatus but will be back on the 16th.**

**.**

**.**

**I finally finished drafting for Ryuk, to the Lady, and I will try to update it as soon as I finish editing. **

**Thanks for waiting!**

* * *

**I own nothing**

* * *

The room is remarkably eerie, centered almost coincidently in the way the candlelight paints delicate licks of fire on the stone walls. Hitsugaya attempted to douse the fire, but it was either enchanted to never burn out or Dumbledore was just messing with him, letting his slaves downstairs light them again and again.

The heat tears into him, and it has nothing to do with chains made of promises stemming from the tip of Death's wand. The dragon is oddly silent, as if treading on the tips of scaled feet, drawing patterns with silent fingers on the snow in order to communicate, but still, the dragon does not speak.

It is almost as if his soul is held captive, blood dripping from the tip of an assassin's knife.

Hitsugaya banishes these thoughts, years of battle have improved his sense. But this castle, full of unlicensed souls and even darker secrets shouldn't be setting him on edge. Shouldn't be putting him on overdrive.

Perhaps it has something to do with the presence of the real assassin in the room, who is curled up on one of the numerous poufs and gives a small sneeze as the dust tickled her sensitive nose.

Any assignment that led to the summoning of Yoruichi Shihoin was never a cakewalk. Yoruichi was a wildcard, yes, but even if he didn't know all of her motives, he knew that she was aware of everything she did, and knew exactly how to counter it.

He attempts to ignore the flicker of the fire, content to watch as the ink from the tip of his brush makes delicate words on the parchment before him.

The portraits are silent.

.

.

.

.

"_How's Ichigo?"_ and there is a knowing in her voice he thinks he's unafraid of.

"_I could care less about how Kurosaki spends his time nowadays."_

"_Aw, did he hurt your feelings~?"_ Yoruichi's tone is playful, but her serious eyes speak of secrets well kept. He almost wishes he could tear apart her outer shell, for buried within those eyes are questions, and answers, and a challenge.

He scoffs, "_As if he could ever hurt me."_

"_So they aren't true then, the rumours."_

"_What rumours?"_

"_Love."_ She says, as if it's sacred.

"_Love." _he repeats, as if the word feel strange on his tongue.

"_You loved him, and maybe he loved you, but he loves someone else now."_

Hitsugaya scowls. "_It wasn't love."_ he says, stubbornly.

But his soul reminds him of nights under warm bed sheets, stars bearing the only witness to gentle touches and softer smiles, waking up curled against another's shoulder. He remembers early mornings and cups of coffee waiting on his desk. He scowls at the dragon, who laughs as it betrays his mind, and smiles as it heralds for his heart.

"_We were both lonely, that was all. We fooled around together because there was no one else. In the end, he was human. They get old, they live, they die. I can't do that for him, I can't live like him."_

Yoruichi sighs. "_And so you blew it."_

"_I didn't blow it. There was nothing to end."_ He repeats it with a sense of finality.

"_He won't remember, after he dies. And if he does, you both have a duty. And he has a wife, and children, and a promise to Soul Society." _She says with a knowing smirk.

"_I know." _He shakes his head. "_Case in point, we were never in love."_

She laughs, forlorn. "_No! That's precisely it. That's love. And I know it. You want him to be happy. I lived for love, I died for love, I left for love."_

"_You're crazy."_ he says. "_I'm not you. What you did wasn't love."_

"_Love." _she says and he shivers.

"_You detest the word, don't you? Dragons could never understand it." _She knows she's being cruel, but Yoruichi was never one for remorse, and if she felt sorry she didn't show it.

Because, that's the thing about cats. Curiosity would have killed her, if she weren't already dead.

She glances at the suit of armour in the corner, where Dumbledore was watching. The boy in front of her finishes marking the report to the head captain, shuts of the light, and slips into sleep, slips into nightmares.

"Just try it," she whispers, and the old man shudders.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Dumbledore wondered if he was making the right decision.

With a creature like that- no, that wasn't right.

Hitsugaya had been a person, a long time ago. He had a life and a family once, and Dumbledore had never gotten a chance to ask him how he died, or didn't. The boy was fascinating, still a child. It was like he had been carted away with Peter Pan and the fairies, just like the muggle fairy tale, and had returned to everything different.

Dumbledore didn't trust the boy at all, didn't want to acknowledge that there was a being wiser, more powerful than he. Perhaps, when the inevitable war drew to a close he could make use of the creature.

_The department of mysteries…_

It was for the greater good. He _was_ wise after all, even if Minister Fudge didn't seem to think so at the moment. They would learn, put their trust in Harry, eventually.

But the truth was, Dumbledore was scared.

Of the creature, of the strange, ageless boy.

And rightly so.

He thinks of the cat that spoke to the boy so lovingly, although he couldn't understand their words. The way it's eyes found their way to his spies and bore a hole in what was left of his heart.

_Try what? _He wants to ask, but the day is new, and the sun peaks its head over the horizon.

.

.

.

.

.

.

There was a sense of distinctive _wrongness _that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hitsugaya awoke to the first rays of dawn on the horizon.

Brushing the nonexistent dust from his shirt, he buttoned up a grey vest, and tugged on his shoes. He had only an hour before the first children woke up and wandered down to the Great Hall.

He glanced around the room, Yoruichi was gone.

He cursed lightly, tugged on leather gloves to hide the scars on his hands. He'd better hurry, before the cat finds an unfortunate mouse.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The paintings in the room stilled as soon as Death's eyes fluttered open. All night, they had whispered and snuck glances down at the sleeping form of a dragon. Others from across the castle traveled to the chamber, watching as the dragon's chest rose and fell.

The cat was another matter, another to be watched with precision, but there was a sense of comfort in her unpredictability. She had disappeared as soon as their eyes had wandered, out of sight, out of mind.

Cats were known to slip out of one's mind as easily as they slipped into them.

The portraits would have told the ghosts, but they wouldn't come within ten feet of the chamber and were busy avoiding the cat.

The portraits watched, trying to keep their fingers from twitching, their chests from rising, in case the boy saw and understood.

There was a shared fear of the world outside the canvas, but guilty they watched him leave the room, unconsciously willing him not to leave.

_Could he grant their wish?_

The only thing more terrifying than death in this world, is the blood of _desire_.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**I hope this chapter didn't suck to much. **

**I also hope everyone had a great halloween! I just rewatched the Shining and drowned my sorrow in candy corn.**

**Don't forget review!**


End file.
